


The end where I begin

by PlatonicLovers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attack, Romance, mention of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:55:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2538398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatonicLovers/pseuds/PlatonicLovers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John gets married, will Sherlock really be alone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The end where I begin

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been in progress since January and I thought I might as well post it! Ever since John’s wedding and seeing Sherlock alone on the dance floor I just couldn’t see him like that forever so it takes place just after. I’m not an expert at panic attacks so I’ve tried to research as best as I can but the story, plot and content is my own. Hope you enjoy reading :)

The air felt colder than usual that night; enough to leave the collars of his coat turned up, protecting his neck against the chill. There was nothing left for him at the wedding and he felt as though he had overstayed his welcome. Opening the door and entering 221B, Sherlock stood for a moment in the dark, taking in how different things would be. The chair besides him where the dim street light shone through wouldn’t be necessary, nor would the bedroom down the hall. There would be no one to shout at him for playing the violin so early in the morning, filling the fridge with body parts or conducting experiments all over the flat.

Nothing was left.

Except of course, Sherlock. 

Sherlock Holmes; the brilliant detective with no friends. The loser, who was socially inept, being abandoned by the only people who had ever liked with him.

He took a few steps forward, steadying himself using the table which was still covered by books belonging to John. Every inch of his apartment was filled with reminders of John’s presence; something he wouldn’t be able to remove. Picking up some files and turning on the table lamp, Sherlock attempted to launch himself into cases to suppress his feelings. He scanned through the details; white male found dead at a hotel, lipstick print on a glass assuming he had company, bruising around his head suggesting blunt force trauma. Sherlock read the words out loud but his mine was elsewhere. Frustrated, he threw the papers on the floor and moved towards the kitchen.

The samples of blood he’d left in the fridge ought to have been ready by now and he carelessly assembled his chemistry set onto the kitchen table, pouring chemicals and solutions from one beaker to another, spilling a fair amount onto the table and floor. What was the matter with him? He asked himself, knowing he’d never been unnerved before. Not while facing bombs or serial killers, but simply standing in his kitchen knowing things wouldn’t be the same. He felt the slight tremor in his hands while his mind felt hazy. What solution was he looking for? What was even the point of this experiment?

“I’m not cleaning this up and you can’t make me!” Sherlock yelled, knowing full well all that could hear him was silence.

Defeated, he withdrew from the kitchen towards the bookshelf looking for it. Even though the police brought sniffer dogs to look for his stash, he kept them one place no one bothered to look; in a dictionary. Climbing onto the chair, he reached for the second shelf from the top fumbling around and dropping books onto the floor. Once Sherlock got the pills, he crouched down in between the bookshelf and the back of his chair, desperately trying to think about something- anything, but it wouldn’t work. His mind wouldn’t work. He reached for his phone among the pile of books; calling the first number he thought of.

* * *

Greg was just saying his goodbyes to the happy couple and a few friends when he received the call from Sherlock.

“Sherlock? Everything okay?”

He heard nothing for a few second and then realized that he had hung up. He tried again but the next few times it went to voicemail. Thinking it was strange, he wondered whether it had he’d been dialled by mistake or whether Sherlock was calling for a purpose. Opting for the latter, he called a cab and directed it to Baker Street, mumbling “make it quick” to the cabbie.

Almost 15 minutes later, Greg knocked on the door to be greeted by a frantic Mrs. Hudson.

“I think it’s Sherlock, I only got in five minutes ago but I heard babbling and noises and crashing coming from the flat upstairs-” as if on cue, the sound of a bottle being thrown against the wall was heard.

“Go inside Mrs Hudson, I’ll go and see what’s happening” Greg instructed, making his way upstairs. He entered Sherlock’s flat and his eyes darted to the shards of glass and books surrounding the man hunched against the wall.

“Sherlock” he whispered under his breath, kicking the glass away with his shoes and lifting Sherlock across the room, steadying him towards the sofa. He could hear Sherlock panting as he grabbed onto Greg’s knee, keeping him upright and stable.

“I- I just-” he couldn’t make out coherent phrase; however Greg gently rubbed his back and advised him to take deep breaths to stop hyperventilating.  He could see his arms, hands and head shaking, echoing back to seeing Sherlock go through withdrawal in his younger days. Back then, he had no personal connection with him and treated him like any other druggie; the only way he could concentrate on his job. But now, seeing a good friend in turmoil and possibly back to his drug habits was unnerving.

He began to ask Sherlock if he’d taken any pills however Sherlock shook his head, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest and the drowning without water sensation he was feeling. Greg carefully lifted the packet out of Sherlock’s hands and into his pocket just to be safe. Twelve minutes felt like forever until he began to calm; the gasps for air became regular breaths, his heart rate steadied and the death grip on Greg softened.

 “How do you know? What to do, I mean?”

“Did you ever hear about my first day on the job?” Sherlock looked up, shook his head and Greg continued.

“I was a rookie and out on the field without my mentor. I’d gotten some information from a call but forgot the door number and spent the whole day going from door to door looking for the right house. Naturally, I’d got sent home and had a panic attack thinking I couldn’t do it but I calmed myself down and two weeks later, solved the case. Turns out, the sister in law didn’t want to be with her sister’s fella and killed him- with bookends apparently” he added.

Greg waited a moment before Sherlock turned to him and for the first time since the wedding speeches, he saw him smile, and then eventually laugh.

“Two weeks? Bit poor even for an inexperienced you, Greg?” they both laughed for a while; the kind of laugh that ended in a long sigh.

“What happened? I mean, why the attack? ” Greg asked after a comfortable silence, as Sherlock stood and walked over to his violin, tracing the strings with his fingers as he looked down feebly.

“I didn’t know what to do. John was my friend- my partner if it were, in crime, and I felt alone. I called you because you were the first one there after I got better and I assumed, and hoped, you’d be there at the end.”

“Sherlock, you idiot. You’re the most maddening, crazy, frustrating and brilliant guy I’ve ever met. Of course I’d be here for you.”

He had been too shy to make eye contact with Greg, but since they were opening up to each other, now was as good as any other time.

“Everyone thinks I’m a freak” he simply stated, well aware of the whispers behind his back as well as unkind words to his face.

“No, you’re not. Your mind is a gift, and the thing I admire most about you is that you could chose to do anything in the world, from being a scientist to astronaut but instead you want to solve crimes and give closure to victims and their families. Course, it might not be for complete altruism or whatever but it still makes a difference in the world and underneath all that bravado, you’re a good man and you need to believe in yourself because I believe in you.”

They shared a smile before Sherlock made his way back to the sofa and plonked himself down next to Greg. Usually, in social situations this kind of moment would call for a hug or a manly pat on the back, but he trusted Greg to know that he was appreciative of his efforts.

“Do you want to stay and watch TV? Apparently, lie detectors and third parties are becoming common in relationships these days.”

“I’ll pop the kettle on, shall I?” Greg proceeded to the kitchen and came back with two mugs, as the two men watched reality TV with commentary from Sherlock on how terrible the concept was. A little while later, Greg dozed off and he covered him with the blanket; the same blanket John used to cover him with when he fell asleep on the sofa.

* * *

 

The next morning, Sherlock woke to find Greg sunken in his arm chair across the room. He smiled at the thought of Greg staying the night to keep him company, and went to use the bathroom before rummaging around for a spare toothbrush John might have brought before.

“Cor, what time is it?” Greg mumbled, rubbing his eyes and stretching his muscles, an apparent consequence of the small chair as Sherlock reappeared.

“A little after eight. I left some supplies you might require in the bathroom.”

Greg went to freshen up and found Sherlock in the kitchen with two cups of tea and the faint smell of burnt toast in the air.

 “I didn’t know which setting the machine works on- it was obviously too high. I hope you like your bread well done.” Sherlock feebly attempted to scrape off the burnt layer before giving up and making room for Greg try again.

The pair ate breakfast together and while Greg was washing up (Sherlock had a sudden emergency involving tuning his violin) he got called into work regarding a current case.

“I’ve gotta go; got some evidence back on a case that needs to be sorted through.” Greg explained, gathering his jacket and scarf from the chair. “Everything okay, yeah?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Yeah” Sherlock replied, knowing Greg was talking about last night and making sure he was alright before he left. Greg gave him a brief look and opened the door.

 “Thank you.”

Greg turned around and saw Sherlock look up from his violin long enough to document the sincere look he gave. “Anytime,” he answered with a slight head nod, before leaving to start his day.

**Author's Note:**

> I do have plans to add maybe another chapter or two but I'm at a brick wall as to how they'll pan out so there may be another coming sometime soon!


End file.
